


i think i’ll have your heart

by aortic



Series: dress your guest and season with vice [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: 1930s, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Gen, Horror, Original Character Death(s), Pre-Canon, Serial Killers, references to the great depression, there's also references to the prohibition, this is essentially a very fucked-up character study, why does everything i write involve cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 15:17:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20360677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aortic/pseuds/aortic
Summary: This hunt, like all those which preceded it, followed a strict regimen. Even his prey, different though individual humans were at a chemical level, mirrored the actions of its predecessors. In truth, Alastor noted, there was not a single element out of order. All was perfectly normal. So, why, he wondered, with a perplexed expression upon his face, did his response vary so drastically? Such befuddlement, he realised, garnered but one inquiry: was it possible that Alastor had grown tired of his own routine?





	i think i’ll have your heart

**Author's Note:**

> i’ve wanted to name a fic (or chapter) “i think i’ll have your heart” for years and i finally found the perfect way to do just that. i don’t know *why* that was a thing i wanted to do, but it was. and now here we are. it’s also *totally not* a reference to a very similar quote from the red dragon. not at all.
> 
> PLEASE!! mind the tags and archive warnings, as this fic contains some rather dark and potentially disturbing content. the, uh, cannibalism is considerably more graphic here than in its predecessor. alastor isn’t a great person. reader discretion is advised.

_No one ever saw him coming._

His malice a phantom amongst men, he could only attribute his success to the clichéd surprise he fashioned into the deadliest of blades. His every movement calculated yet unanticipated by those it harmed, Alastor stalked plainly amongst the people of New Orleans — intentions unearthed the moment his victims gazed upon the face of death.

He alone held the knowledge to his true identity, and he alone bore the ability to mock the public’s collective ignorance. Every minuscule step he so took further inflated his sense of pride, and yet, as he seized the life of another innocent — skull bludgeoned to an unrecognisable heap of splintered bone and flesh — his heart failed to hammer arduously at the sight. Neither the overwhelming rush of adrenaline nor the ecstasy he associated with such bloodshed managed to plaster a grin upon his face.

Such an oddity forced him to pause.

For all his impulses, Alastor was a creature of habit. He thought it unwise to act upon his every whim — knew such things would only guarantee his end — and thus operated in the most meticulous of manners. This hunt, like all those which preceded it, followed a strict regimen. Even his prey, different though individual humans were at a chemical level, mirrored the actions of its predecessors. In truth, Alastor noted, there was not a _single_ element out of order. All was perfectly normal. So, why, he wondered, with a perplexed expression upon his face, did _his _response vary so drastically?

Such befuddlement, he realised, garnered but one inquiry: _was it possible that Alastor had grown tired of his own routine?_

He stifled the urge to laugh. Such things seemed absurd. For why, in all the years he spent perfecting his craft, would he now grow bored of its familiarity? Security found its home in repetition — in doing what one knew best — and of all factors Alastor weighed in the quest of satiating his bloodlust, it was his freedom that he deemed most important. Even _he _was not so skilled as to kill upon a mere whim and remain undetected; no one was.

Begrudgingly, however, Alastor realised that the more he attempted to discredit the theorised cause of his apathy, the more apparent its validity became. Only a severe change of pace would appease his growing boredom.

An ominous smirk graced his lips. And fortunately for Alastor, he knew _precisely _whom to fashion into his latest target.

* * *

While little compared to the thrill of his beloved hunt — to the pleasure of its sanguine outcome — Alastor quite enjoyed his day job; found it equally exhilarating, at times, to that of his primary hobby. The tales of which he read were so dismal, so abundant in their details of turmoil, that he often bit the side of his mouth to prevent _too _wide of a smile from forming. 

_“In other news, local police have advised all to follow a strict curfew in light of the recent strain of abductions in the New Orleans area. A total of thirteen citizens have been reported missing within the span of the past three months, with no suspects identified at this time.” _

Even more intoxicating were the times in which he spoke of his own crimes.

_“Anyone withholding information valuable to the ongoing investigation is urged to contact the New Orleans Police Department at once.”_

He smirked inwardly, knowing no such information existed. The public was just as oblivious as their incompetent police department.

“Well,” he began in his trademark tone of amenity, “That’s all for tonight, folks! Remember to stay safe, stay vigilant, and as always, have a _magnificent_ evening.”

Alastor sighed, a shadow of a grin upon his lips as he thought of the inherent irony of his closing statement; wishing safety to those he preyed upon. He almost laughed.

But the approaching footsteps of his assistant — or technician, a term for which he thought her talents were better suited — severed his moment of covert glory, eager to share her thoughts on the night’s broadcast.

“What do you think has happened to all those missing people?” she asked, lips pursed in an inquisitive fashion. “I mean, surely, with _that _ratio, there must be something more sinister at play here.”

Smirking, Alastor jested, “Do you mean to say the act of abduction itself is not sinister _enough_, Ms Arnot?”

Eyes widened in the horror of her own syntax, she stammered, “N-no, that… that isn’t what I meant at all!” She paused, words overshadowed by an anxious bout of laughter. “Just that, you know, that _high _of a number suggests… well…” Her voice faltered, previous expression of humiliation fading into one of gloom. “It suggests they’ve been killed, does it not?” 

_Oh, Ms Arnot, _thought Alastor with a faint chuckle, _ever the curious one, aren’t you? _Indeed the young woman possessed a mind fit for the most puzzling of detective work with her legion of intuitive queries. If not for her naïve faith in the benevolence he presented, Alastor figured that if anyone possessed the ability to align the radio host with his own crimes, it was she and she alone who bore the potential of his undoing. He almost wished he would allow himself to welcome the challenge. Admittedly, he was quite fond of his assistant — _respected_ her, even — at least to the extent that his intrinsic egoism would permit. In a world rich in idiocy, Cassandra Arnot reflected a rare form of intelligence: one that pervaded the boundaries of academia and common sense alike. He would _miss _her, in his own strange way, and yet, he would kill her all the same. 

“That _would _seem likely,” Alastor admitted. “But, given the lack of relevant corpses, the police are left with no choice but to treat this as a missing persons case.”

But Cassandra, undeterred by his words, merely countered, “So, how do you imagine he does it, then?”

Though he knew well the meaning of her query, Alastor quirked his brows to portray the contrary. “Who?”

“The killer.” Cassandra paused. “Or rather, the _abductor_. You said yourself that no bodies have been discovered. So, how do you imagine he…” Her voice darkened, nose wrinkled in disgust of the words that followed, “_Disposes_ of the evidence?”

His lips twitched. Refreshing though he found her curiosity to be, Alastor knew that even if he abandoned his plan to kill the young woman, she would eventually find herself dead nevertheless. In instances such as these, he found the old cliché to be laughably true. Curiosity _would_, indeed, kill the cat.

“Alligators, perhaps. New Orleans has them in steady supply.”

“Hm…” Cassandra reflected, nodding at what she thought to be a probable method. “Yes, that _would _make sense.” She sighed. “This job is _quite_ the depressing one at times. But, at the very least, I suppose I can find some comfort in knowing I take part in alerting the general public — keeping them informed and whatnot. There’s a certain gratification that comes with helping others.”

An unsuspecting grin crept across Alastor’s lips as he gave an agreeable nod. “Yes…” he said, lying as though his love for the radio was born of mere charitable desire. “I would agree.”

He smoothed the front of his coat, clearing his throat to steer their conversation to its intended route. “Well, I do hope you’ll enjoy your weekend,” he said, inherent apathy obscured by the sincerity he so excellently feigned. “You work so diligently,” he added. “Truly, you deserve a vacation.”

A smile of bittersweet quality graced Cassandra’s lips. “I’d love to,” she agreed, “But with the market’s recent crash, I’m afraid I can’t afford to splurge on any vacations. I need to save as much as I can. Surely, you understand.”

Though he cringed inwardly at the concept, Alastor placed a hand upon Cassandra’s shoulder, offering an empathetic gaze in return. “Of course I do. These are…” He paused in a momentary search for the appropriate word. “_Trying times_,” he decided. Objective though his sentence seemed, Alastor stifled the urge to laugh at its inherent guile. Truthfully, he relished in the chaos borne of such pervasive misfortune — in the massive consequential death it garnered. He thought the crash to be an utter blessing.

“Yes,” said Cassandra amongst a bout of dejected laughter. “They most certainly are. Nationwide poverty, famine, crime… and to think we’ve a murderer in our city, taking advantage of it all.” She shook her head. “I must admit, I admire your optimism.”

Alastor chuckled, for it was not eternal optimism that triggered his ever-present smile or joyous disposition, but the raw _pleasure _he obtained from collective misery — nothing short of pure entertainment.

“Quite frankly, Ms Arnot, it would seem you don’t give yourself enough credit,” he began, rather impressed by his own ability to deliver the most desirable of lies. He knew, despite his general distaste for mankind, what reassuring words those he enticed wished to hear — knew what would _lure _his prey to their own demise. And yet, for one so accustomed to the dishonest, it nearly repulsed him to consider the possibility that the words he shared with Ms Arnot were genuine. 

“You may not regard yourself as an optimist, but,” he said, “You _are_ inquisitive. You dare ask questions where most cower. It’s minds like yours that will shape our future.”

Ever humble, Cassandra merely smiled in response, an appreciative shimmer in her eyes. “You’re too kind,” she murmured.

Alastor nearly choked upon the irony of such words. “I speak nothing but the truth.” He paused, eager to enact the corresponding stage of his plan. Man, much like fish, was often quite the elusive prey — neither roamed about, vulnerable in their respective territory. No, if Alastor meant to catch man, the initial strike had to present itself in the form of something his target desired… and benevolence, he found, made for the ideal bait.

“Now, if you haven’t any plans, Ms Arnot…” he began, an utterly senseless formality, as he knew _quite well _that the lovely Cassandra Arnot spent her weekends alone. She was new to the city — to Louisiana itself — an only child with neither friends nor local family. Aside from the baker who opened shop next door, _he _was her closest acquaintance, a fact deemed _most_ beneficial. Her solitude made for more ideal of a kill. 

“I would be honoured if you would join me for dinner tomorrow evening. In times such as these, I figured, we would both have use of a friend.”

Her eyes, green like the moss that often hung from the mangrove trees, glimmered in response. There was nothing Cassandra desired more; the company of a friend. “Yes, I would love to,” she said. “To be honest, I haven’t done much since I’ve moved here — aside from work, that is.”

“Well,” said Alastor, “I’d say it’s high time you do something for yourself, then. Wouldn’t you agree?”

She nodded, ignorant of the words she spoke and their fatal significance to the man who stood before her. “Yes. I would.”

* * *

The gift of another’s company, Cassandra decided amidst a particularly stimulating conversation, was indeed the cure to all ailments. The pair laughed over some joke she had made, witty though quite dark in tone, as they shared a relatively mutual sense of humour. She paused for a sip of wine, inquiring how on _earth _Alastor managed to procure such an exquisite bottle despite its illegality, to which he merely jested that he “had his ways.”

Silence befell the room as Cassandra proceeded with her meal, one for which she _swore _to obtain the recipe, as she prattled on about its divine flavour between bites.

“I’m surprised you never considered a career as a chef,” she said. “I think you’d do quite well.”

Alastor chuckled, ever amused by the tragic innocence of her words. “I’m flattered you think so, my dear. Though I’m afraid my tastes aren’t particularly common with most folk.”

“Oh, _nonsense_,” Cassandra scoffed, dismissing his statement with the wave of her hand. “What is this, by the way?” she inquired, fork pointed to the meat in question. “It’s delicious.”

“Pork,” said Alastor instinctively. “Picked the meat myself.”

Cassandra nodded, sighing as she savoured the splendour of her final slice. “Well, as I said, it’s absolutely delicious. You _certainly_ know what you’re doing.” Her gaze shifted to her host, utterly puzzled by the state of his plate. She noticed, confusion etched into her features, that Alastor had merely picked at his food, the majority of it untouched as if not wishing to spoil dessert.

“Would you care for more wine, Ms Arnot?” he inquired abruptly, forcing the woman to flinch at the sudden interruption. “I apologise,” he added, voice tranquil in its texture, “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“No, no, you’re fine,” said Cassandra with a sigh. “And yes, thank you. That would be splendid.”

Alastor rose from the table with his trademark grin, her glass in hand as he promptly strolled into the kitchen. “I’ll be back in a moment!” he called, stifling his overwhelming desire to laugh at Cassandra’s unwavering faith in one such as himself. _Would mankind ever learn_, he wondered, as he retrieved an iron skillet from the adjacent counter, _that to trust in another was both the most foolish and fatal error of all?_

And so, with the most silent of steps, Alastor crept into the dining room once more, a ghastly smirk upon his lips as he loomed atop his prey. He studied the gradual _rise and fall _of her shoulders for a moment, captivated by her state of complete ignorance as he stood mere centimetres from her, blunt object in hand.

But as she fell to the floor, rendered unconscious by the skillet’s brusque collision with her skull, Alastor mused that he obtained the answer to his rhetorical query: _it seemed humans would, in fact, never learn._

* * *

Cassandra woke to the sweltering burn of rope against her skin. 

Her eyes, weighted with the trauma of her previously unconscious state, gradually opened to observe her surroundings. _Alastor’s dining room_, she concluded, judging by the familiar wallpaper and adjacent table. Her wrists wriggled beneath their restraints, teeth clenched as the friction only forced the material deeper into her flesh.

A dejected groan escaped her lips. _Had someone broken in? _she wondered, naïve loyalty to her sole friend blinding her to the most apparent of truths. Even with her limbs bound to a dining chair, she refused to think Alastor culpable. _I don’t see him anywhere_, she added.

“Ah!” came the jubilant sound of his voice, so abrupt — so incessantly _ecstatic_ — that Cassandra flinched as a result. Alastor chuckled at this — at his ability to instil terror in others — and turned the corner to enter her field of vision. “Ms Arnot, awake at last. Wonderful!”

Brows furrowed as she began to fruitlessly wriggle beneath the restraints once more, Cassandra spat, “What sort of sick _joke _is this? I demand you untie me this instant!”

“Joke?” Alastor repeated, a bemused expression writ large upon his face. “I’m afraid this is no mere joke, my dear.” He paused. “Though I do confess to being rather _amused _that you would think it so. After all…” He plucked a knife from his coat, wielding it in her direction as he continued, “It _was_ you who insisted the recent abductions were of the more deadly variety. So, congratulations, Ms Arnot…” He lowered himself into the seat before her, resting his hands upon its top rail to whisper, “_How does it feel to have been right?_” in a tone so ominous — so cruel in its implications — that Cassandra swore it could belong to only the devil himself.

Her heart sank into the cavity of her chest; lungs strained as though bound to iron bars. She stifled her urge to quiver beneath his gaze — to display any form of weakness. And yet, as Alastor’s lips curled into a venomous smirk, her body trembled nonetheless. 

_How? _she wondered as the blood froze in her veins. _How could I have been such a fool? _For all her wit — all her shrewd intellect — not once had she called Alastor’s character into question. She trusted no one and yet, she unwittingly trusted the very man who meant to subject her to the most unfathomable of deaths.

In a voice hushed and unlike her own, she murmured, “Like my very soul has been _ripped_ from my chest.” 

Alastor chuckled as he plucked the handkerchief from his breast pocket. “_You always did have a way with words_,” he intoned, a faint smile upon his lips as he promptly shoved the material down her throat to muffle all unpleasant screams and aimless pleas for help. 

She thrashed violently beneath her restraints, chair rocking as she screamed beneath the satin gag. Alastor thought she appeared quite feral as she continued to protest — all furious eyes and irate motions.

“Oh, come now, Ms Arnot. There’s no reason to act this way,” he said, scolding her much in the way a parent would their child. “You can’t imagine how happy your sacrifice has made me. You’ve cured my treacherous _boredom_.”

Twirling the knife between his fingers, Alastor pondered where to make the initial incision. Unaccustomed to flaying his prey while it still lived, he thought the possibilities to be utterly endless.

And so, on an uninhibited whim, he chose to plunge the blade into the flesh of her upper thigh. 

Squealing muffled by the handkerchief buried in her mouth, Cassandra jolted beneath the rope, fingers curling into fists in a futile attempt to mitigate the agony her assailant so gleefully inflicted. She cringed, tears pricking her eyes as the blade wrenched deeper into her skin, stirring all accessible tissue into a tangled mass of subcutaneous flesh.

She lurched forward as Alastor plucked the knife from her leg, nearly toppling to the ground as a result. But instead, the chair merely rocked for a moment, offset by the sudden shift in weight, before finally settling into its previous place.

Blood oozed from the abysmal gash onto the floor, coating the wood below a sickly red. _Is this the fate he means to subject me to? _Cassandra wondered, as her head fell back onto the top rail of her chair. _For me to bleed to death?_

She flinched, alarmed by the abrupt sensation of his hands along her abdomen. Cassandra noted the manner in which his brows narrowed — lips pursed — contemplative in appearance. Her thoughts sprawled in a variety of fiendish directions, fearing what one such as _Alastor_ could possibly consider with his fingers upon her flesh.

Then, with all the delicacy she expected of a surgeon, he dragged the blade around her side; lips curling at the thin trail of blood that emerged to outline his curved incision. She whimpered as he repeated the motion, driving the knife deeper with each cycle that passed.

Beaming in the face of his own skill, Alastor dropped to his knees to better examine the wound, swiping a hand across its crimson surface and swathing his fingers with her blood.

Cassandra froze, as even in her state of near-delirium did she witness her assailant _lick_ the substance from his fingertips. Initially, she thought little of the action, only that Alastor meant to mock her pitiful state; to ensure she knew it was _he _who bore the power to strip all mankind of its dignity. But then, in the most repulsive of epiphanies, a single query entered her mind, one she had posed in a now-regrettable moment of morbid curiosity. 

_How do you imagine he disposes of the evidence?_

Her eyes shifted from the bit of smeared blood upon Alastor’s lips to the marred flesh of her abdomen.

_Alligators, perhaps. New Orleans has them in steady supply._

She recoiled against the wooden frame of her chair, squirming in spite of her own gaping wounds, and — in what Alastor deemed to be the most _absurd_ of reactions — murmured the declaration beneath the fabric barrier in her mouth.

“What was that, Ms Arnot?” he mumbled against her skin, voice taunting yet utterly melodic in tone. “I’m afraid I can’t understand you.” His lips cracked into a smug grin, teeth grazing the bloodied abyss he fashioned out of her side. 

He paused. In all his years of dining on those weaker than he, not once had Alastor consumed the flesh of live prey. He considered it — _briefly_ — before quickly purging the thought from his mind. He found the practice rather barbaric — animalistic in nature — and unfit for one as civilised as himself. And yet, as blood pooled into his mouth, flooding his senses with its metallic taste, he began to entertain the prospect once more. 

If humans, foolish creatures as they were, lived to indulge their every wish, then why should he abstain from his? He was, after all, of a far superior intellect. If anyone had earned the occasional splurge of uninhibited desire, it was he who reigned most deserving.

And so, succumbing to his peculiar branch of grotesque curiosity, Alastor sunk his teeth into the crevice of her wound.

Cassandra twitched beneath his grasp, choking on her own trail of muffled sobs as she felt muscle rip from bone. He gnawed gradually along her flesh, as if wishing to preserve its every flavour, each bite prompting another surge of blood to bubble from the wound’s surface.

Alastor wondered how he _possibly _denied himself the pleasure of such a delicacy for so long. He thought the texture itself quite intoxicating; relished in the way the pliable meat melted between his teeth. He clung to her with all the ferocity of an apex predator — all the _desperation _of one so famished — tearing his way through layer upon _layer _of reddened muscle.

Reverie shattered by the insistent squirming of his prey, Alastor indulged himself one final bite before resuming his previous stance. He rose from the floor, eyeing the state of his technician, and furrowed his brows at her puzzling display of ardour.

_Human adrenaline sure is a curious phenomenon_, he thought.

Indignant, Cassandra stomped her heel to the ground, a silent demand to which Alastor surprisingly obeyed. She gasped as he removed the handkerchief from her mouth, hoarse coughs forcing blood to sputter past her lips. 

“So, that’s… that’s how you erase your trail of bodies…” she croaked, knowing every word she so murmured held the potential to be her last. “Eating the evidence.”

Alastor chuckled. “Yes, well, I quite appreciate your assistance in that _particular _matter,” he said, tilting his head to the adjacent table, still adorned with their plates from the night’s dinner. “I believe you rather enjoyed yourself, too.” A menacing smirk graced his lips. “_Didn’t you, Ms Arnot?_”

Vision obscured by the settling consequences of such severe blood loss, Cassandra’s eyes shifted to her dish, lazily hovering atop its contents. _Pork,_ she murmured internally, as even her mind began to rot with her impending death. _It’s not pork_.

Her stomach churned with the realisation — that she had inadvertently engaged in the act of consuming human flesh. Whipped by a devastating wave of nausea, drowning in the guilt of such a sin, Cassandra prayed that God consider her lack of autonomy in the matter — that her ignorance spare her from the flames of hell.

“Why…?” she murmured, voice garbled by her own despair. “Why me…?”

Alastor knelt to the ground once more, running a bloodied hand across the curve of her jaw. “Because, my dear Ms Arnot, you were unlike all the others. You,” he said, “Are the only human I’ve remotely respected… which is precisely why I chose you as my subject for this endeavour.”

He gave a faint smile. “And you know what the most enthralling part of it is, dear?” he inquired in a voice far too saccharine to belong to one whose lips were smothered in blood. Prepared to throttle the remaining life from her very lungs, he slipped his hand inside the bloodied gorge of her abdomen, eyes half-lidded as his fingers grazed organs and bone alike, “That despite betraying my every precaution and acting against my better judgment…”

Words slurring with the cruellest of satisfaction, ivory teeth glistening an opaque red in the flicker of the dim candlelight, Alastor leant forward to whisper, “You still never saw me coming… did you?” 

**Author's Note:**

> i finally had an excuse to mention alligators in something i’ve written. the floridian in me is thriving.
> 
> however, i can’t believe i seriously likened serial murder to a “hobby” and cannibalism to a “reverie” in this fic. i literally hate you, alastor. find some less-disturbing things to do in your spare time.
> 
> anyway, quick shout out to [mei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meimentomori) for always supporting my writing endeavours — bizarre though said endeavours may be at times. i appreciate you! ♡


End file.
